


Starfleet Academy for Gifted Youngsters

by Ael



Series: Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mutants, Alternate Universe - X-Men Fusion, Gen, Not Beta Read, Snapshots, Starfleet Academy, Tarsus IV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-23 15:33:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8332975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ael/pseuds/Ael
Summary: Starfleet Academy, home to carriers and mutants alike. Three years before Nero's attack on Vulcan, Jim Kirk and Leonard McCoy begin to forge what will one day be a legendary friendship. A series of snapshots of how it all began.





	1. Kelvin

This is not what he thought being captain would be like.

 

Red lights flash all around him, alarms blaring as the entire ship groans like a wounded creature, wallowing helplessly as the massive eldritch ship blasts her with photon torpedoes. His hands fly over the console, setting the controls for the autopilot to take the doomed starship on a collision course for the alien vessel, his mind already working on the best route to take around the damaged sections in order to make it to the shuttle bay. Medical shuttle 37, where his wife will be waiting for him... his wife, and soon their child.

 

His plans are instantly obliterated as the words flash on the viewscreen.

 

AUTOPILOT MALFUNCTION. //SYS_ALERT: MANUAL OVERRIDE ONLY.

 

George Kirk breathes out, feeling almost lightheaded. He knows what this means. He will never see his wife again, never hold their newborn baby, never see what kind of person their second child will grow up to be. He'll never get to know if either of their children will be Carriers like him, or if one day they too will develop into strong Mutants like their mother.

 

And if he doesn't do what must be done, Winona and the children will never make it. Neither will the other eight hundred men and women of the _USS Kelvin_. It isn't even a hard decision. There is no choice.

 

He comms the shuttle. "Medical shuttle 37, this is the captain. Is my wife on board?"

 

" _Yes sir, she is._ "

 

George doesn't recognize the voice, and part of him regrets not being able to tell. But the message is what is important. "I need you to take off now." The voice starts to protest, but he stands firm as he accesses the weapon controls, targeting the bizarre Romulan missiles before they can reach the shuttles, keeping his people safe.

 

He can hardly bear to hear his wife's voice as she calls him, and at the same time he can't bear the thought that it will be the last time he hears her voice. The last time she will hear his. His heart aches, like it's been ripped from his chest and blasted to pieces like the ship. And it all but stops in shock as the sound of an infant's wail rises above the death rattle of the _Kelvin_ around him. "What is it?"

 

" _It's a boy..._ "

 

"A boy!" George never knew that it was possible to feel so elated and so grief-stricken at the same time. Another strong son to carry on the Kirk name. "What're we going to call him?" he asks, even as he fires up the impulse engines, aimed directly at the heart of the giant black claw in space, reaching out to snatch the _Kelvin_ from the stars.

 

" _We could name him after your father._ "

 

"Tiberius? Are you kidding? That's the worst." George doesn't need their newborn son to carry around that kind of legacy. The family name is more than enough honor for him. "Let's name him after your dad, honey. Let's call him Jim." He hears her softly agree, and then there is no time. He can do nothing but project his feelings for her and their sons, knowing that the last thing she feels from him will be his love, not fear. "Listen sweetheart, I love you so much," he says as the alien ship fills every corner of the viewscreen. "I love you. I lo-"

 

Impact.

 

The _USS Kelvin_ disintegrates as it tears through the Romulan ship, disabling its cannons in one destructive blast. The black ship reels from the blow, drifting off course, as the surviving shuttlecraft flee to safety. On board medical shuttle 37, Winona Kirk clutches her baby to her chest and sobs, feeling the link to her husband snap in the span of a second, leaving half of her mind flailing and screaming in the dark. In her arms, baby Jim wails too, born into darkness and death, in the shadow of his father's sacrifice.


	2. Empath

Captain Christopher Pike had always wondered what had become of James Kirk, the famous _Kelvin_ baby. The media had followed the family for years after the tragedy, the world fascinated by the heroic story of the Carrier who had selflessly given his life to protect his wife and child, and the hundreds of Carriers and Mutants aboard Starfleet's finest vessel. Winona had always appeared the resent the attention, eventually fleeing the planet to be free of it, leaving her sons behind as she traveled the stars under the banner of the Federation. The media had eventually lost interest, and by the time he was ten years old, James Kirk had vanished from their radar.

 

He had never expected to find the kid being battered bloody at the hands of four of Starfleet's newest recruits.

 

Bars and nightclubs nearly always project a feeling of lust and enjoyment of baser pleasures, and Pike is used to ignoring them. The unbridled rage and violence is new, though, and he would simply report it to the authorities and let them sort it out except for one fact: this dive bar in Riverside, Iowa is currently playing host to several dozen fresh cadets under his own command.

 

Pike sighs a little as he moves towards the bar, fully expecting to find that they've found some kind of ridiculous disagreement amongst themselves to settle very publicly. He's slightly thrown to see four red-suited recruits beating the shit out of a young local, one who isn't even putting up much of a fight. There's an almost suicidal despair radiating off the townie, well masked by bravado and a deep-seated bitterness at the world. Some part of this kid feels like he deserves this.

 

That's just not okay with Pike. He whistles sharply, and is gratified to see that the cadets respond to his call immediately, all rage forgotten in favor of metaphorically shitting their pants at being caught brawling by one of Starfleet's most prolific advisors. Every single one of them snaps to attention, and it's impossible to hide bloody knuckles from his sight, nor the young man who is nearly bent over backwards on the low table, blood streaming from a broken nose as he stares dazedly at the upside-down captain.

 

"Outside," Pike orders the cadets, his words snapping out crisp and clear. "All of you." There are some grumbled protests from the cadets not involved with the fight, but all of them obey, and he can sort it out later once he's sure this poor kid is all right. Maybe he started the fight, and maybe he didn't, but Starfleet must be held to a higher standard than this. Beating the tar out of a civilian is completely unacceptable, no matter what the young man said or did.

 

Pike reaches out, sensing the kid's confusion and disorientation. The recruits must've rung his bell pretty hard. "You all right, son?" he asks.

 

"You can whistle really loud, you know that?" The voice is hauntingly familiar somehow, and Pike cocks his head, wondering what the kid looks like when he's the right way up. He's fairly certain that they've never met before.

 

The captain reaches out a hand this time, helping the young man to his feet, and the townie sways a bit before regaining his balance. "Thanks," the kid mutters, and lurches off toward the bar's bathroom. Presumably to throw up, or at least attempt to stop his nose from bleeding all over the place. Pike lets him go, and approaches the bartender, now the only other person in the room.

 

"Who started it?" he asks.

 

The barkeep grunts. "Your boys threw the first punch, Captain. Kirk's provoked more than one brawl by hitting on the wrong woman before. He has a reputation for fighting in self-defense after doing his best to start the fight in the first place."

 

"Kirk?" The name sends a shock through Pike, and he can't sense any kind of deception in the bartender's words. " _James_ Kirk?"

 

"That's the one. He's in here a lot," the barkeep answers, and there's a sort of defensiveness in him as he looks at the captain. Clearly, even though Kirk tends to cause trouble, there's a sort of fondness there for his loyal local customer. "I've never seen him be the first to hit someone. This time was no exception."

 

Pike nods slowly, considering all that he's seen and felt of the kid so far. Kirk clearly has issues, but after the family history he has, who wouldn't? No wonder he sounded so familiar. "I don't intend to get him into trouble," he says at last. "But if you don't mind, I'd like to talk to him. After closing time." He reaches across the bar and types in a commlink frequency. "Call this number and they'll reimburse you for the damages. Do you want those four banned from your establishment?"

 

The barkeep shakes his head. "I doubt they'll be back anyway."

 

"Probably not," Pike agrees. "Thank you."

 

Kirk's in the bathroom for nearly thirty minutes before he finally drags himself out, bloody napkins shoved up his nose to stem the bleeding. He pauses, clearly surprised to find the bar so deserted, before he sees Pike sitting at the table, an empty chair pulled invitingly up for him and a fresh glass of whiskey on the table. It doesn't take empathy to feel the suspicion coming off the kid in waves. "Captain Tsel-Christopher Pike. I'd like to apologize on behalf of my cadets," Pike says mildly. "Buy you a drink?"

 

Seemingly against his better judgment, Kirk sits down, eyeing the man in Starfleet uniform as though he expects this is some kind of trap to lure him in. Pike can't tell what Kirk thinks is going to happen to him, but keeps his body language relaxed and open, as nonthreatening as possible. Kirk's clearly deep in his cups already, but if offering to get him more booze is what it takes to make him sit down and talk, then that's what Pike is willing to do.

 

"You know, I couldn't believe it when the bartender told me who you were," Pike begins.

 

"And who am I, Captain Pike?" Kirk asks, knowing that he won't like the answer no matter what it is. He's still waiting for the hammer to fall.

 

"Your father's son," Pike replies. He can tell plain as day that Kirk doesn't like that answer, but it's true. The bruised and bloodied young man looks so much like his father that it's almost spooky, even if he feels nothing like George ever did. But George Kirk didn't have to deal with having a dead father and a psychically traumatized mother trying to raise him, nor a media circus following him throughout his early childhood. "For my dissertation, I was assigned the _USS Kelvin_. Something I admired about your dad... he didn't believe in no-win scenarios."

 

Bitterness, loneliness, anger. "Sure learned his lesson," Kirk mutters.

 

"Well, that depends on how you define winning," Pike answers. "You're here, aren't you?" He can tell that Kirk isn't entirely happy about that, and he wonders what kind of childhood this troubled young man has had. He'd looked up his files while waiting for Kirk to emerge from the bathroom, and while many of his records were sealed, his current profile was up to date. Phenomenal grades in school, whenever he decided to attend, and a rap sheet long enough to make his father spin in his grave. "You know, that instinct to leap without looking, that was his nature too, and in my opinion, something that Starfleet's lost."

 

There's an almost hysterical edge to Kirk's thoughts as he chuckles. "Why are you talking to me, man?"

 

"Because I looked up your file while you were drooling on the floor," Pike answers. "Your aptitude tests are off the charts, so what is it? You like being the only genius-level repeat offender in the Midwest?" He's not just trying to flatter the kid. Kirk's older brother, Sam, would have received an offer from Starfleet too if he hadn't run away from home before graduating high school. By the time he was located, it was too late; he'd already found his way offworld, and any attempts to communicate with him had been rejected outright. Kirk's scores are above and beyond how his brother had ever tested, even without any apparent active mutation to bolster his natural skills.

 

"Maybe I love it." It's a lie, no powers needed to tell that. Something has made Kirk into an incredibly bitter, cynical young man and he's only twenty-two.

 

Pike's guesses about this sort of thing are usually better than most people's guesses, for obvious reasons. "Look, so your dad dies, you can settle for less - an ordinary life. But you feel like you were meant for something better. Something special." There, he senses the moment where his words finally ring true in Kirk's heart. The files didn't say anything about Kirk's powers, and he's too old to get them now. In all likelihood, he's a Carrier just like his dad. It's not exactly a secret that Mutants tend to get hired or promoted more than Carriers, in a meritocracy like the Federation. But there is at least one organization that tries to be as fair as possible. "Enlist in Starfleet."

 

Kirk actually laughs, like he can't believe his ears. This is what he's been waiting to hear, since the moment he saw Pike waiting for him. "Enlist? You guys must be way down in your recruiting quotas."

 

 _If he's trying to recruit a Carrier like me_ , Pike assumes is how that thought would finish. "If you're half the man your father was, Jim, Starfleet could use you. You can be an officer in four years, have your own ship in eight. With natural abilities like yours, you don't need powers to succeed where hard work will do. Not having them won't-"

 

"Are you done?" Kirk interrupts him, and any trace of good humor is gone. Whatever his sore spots are, somehow even with empathy to guide him, Pike's poked his way into some kind of open wound.

 

Well then. That's that. "I'm done," Pike agrees, knowing that Kirk isn't going to sit here and listen to more of a lecture. He stands, feeling Kirk's relief as clearly as he can see it on the kid's face. "Riverside shipyard. Shuttle for new recruits leaves at oh-eight hundred."

 

Kirk salutes him with his empty glass, but there's no real feeling behind it. As intriguing as he's found this conversation, nothing that Pike's said has made enough of an impact on him. And what a waste it is, Pike thinks, to have this kid picking bar fights and getting arrested for no other reason than being angry at the cards life has dealt him.

 

"Your father was captain of a starship for twelve minutes," Pike says, unable to resist one last try. "He saved eight hundred lives. Including your mother's, and yours. I dare you to do better."

 

There's a surge of anger from Kirk that never makes it to his face, but this one doesn't seem to come from the horrible bitterness at his core. This one comes straight from his pride. He doesn't answer, just stares up at Pike defiantly for a long moment before dropping his gaze.

 

The captain turns and walks out of the bar, turning his attention toward what he's going to say to reprimand his unruly cadets. But part of his thoughts linger with Kirk, and the subtler feelings of contemplation coming from inside the near-empty bar. Maybe nothing they talked about will sink in. Maybe Kirk will go home, sleep, and tomorrow he'll get up and find a new fight to pick with someone who will really hurt him this time. And maybe Kirk will actually think about what Pike said, and do something about it.

 

It's a long shot, but he had to try.

 

Pike squares his shoulders, and heads toward the gathered cadets, nervously waiting at attention for him in the darkness outside the bar. They're cold, uncomfortable, and bored, but at least one of those feelings evaporate the moment they see him coming, replaced with fearful respect. "So," Pike says as he stops in front of them. "Who wants to admit that they thought beating a civilian was acceptable?"


	3. Night

Enlist.

 

Jesus Christ. Kirk can't believe that anyone had the balls to say that to _him_ , let alone a jumped up Starfleet captain with some kind of hero-worship for a man who got himself killed on purpose. He's pretty sure he's been sick of people comparing him to his dad since the day he was born. His mother, looking at him with that devastated look on her face every time, seeing George Kirk's ghost in his eyes, his smile, his mannerisms. The media, obsessed with the _Kelvin_ baby and how little Jimmy's been dealing with the death of a father he never knew. And now this asshole.

 

At least Pike bought him another drink, he supposes. Kirk sighs, and stands, giving a farewell nod to the bartender as the man runs the sonic cleaner over the mess on the floor. Kirk's pretty sure he sees a few of his own bloodstains there.

 

Leaving the bar after everyone else is a strange feeling. Outside, the Iowan fields stretch infinitely into darkness, and there's hardly even a whisper of any other living sapient in town. Even the cadets are gone, probably hauled off by Pike to God-knows-where to get upbraided. He can't resist a chuckle at the thought of those pompous assholes being bawled out over a good brawl like that. Starfleet really has no sense of humor.

 

He touches his nose gingerly, feeling it flare in pain under his fingers. He'd reset it as best he could in the bathroom, and hell, at least it looks mostly straight. And he's not gushing blood like it's going out of style either. He's had way worse.

 

As always, when thoughts of Tarsus IV cross his mind, his back aches and he has to resist the urge to rub at the scars there. It may be etched into his skin, but it's in the past, and he firmly shoves it back where it belongs. He has too much to think about to dwell on old wounds.

 

Starfleet.

 

Kirk straddles his motorcycle and revs the engine, satisfied at the throbbing power between his legs. There's probably something Freudian there, but he gives it little thought as he guns it, zipping out into the darkness. Ahead of him, Iowa disappears into a haze under the stars, which stretch above him in an enormous sweeping arc, the spiral arm of the Milky Way galaxy. Up there, somewhere, lie the greatest mysteries of the universe. Death, destruction, ancient civilizations, advanced technology... the unknown.

 

He'd never given much thought to space. After Tarsus IV, he'd never been more content to stay Earthbound, as miserable as this life has turned out to be. Life is misery, why should it be any different, no matter where he is? Space killed his father, took his brother, and lured his mother away where she wouldn't have to see her dead husband in the face of her son.

 

His motorcycle eats up the distance to nowhere, and Kirk jolts out of his thoughts to see the Riverside shipyards looming before him, barely lit by the faint glow of pre-dawn light. He pulls the bike to a stop on the crest of a hill, looking out at the half-built skeleton of a ship. Her saucer looms hundreds of feet long, held aloft by a sweeping neck, and connected to her cylindrical base, two delicate nacelles arise like wings to carry her aloft. She has little in common with the older models, clearly some newer style of ship, built for style and beauty. When she's finished, Kirk finds it easy to believe she will be sleek and deadly, and a strange part of him longs to be with her, soaring among the stars. His heart aches with the thought of it, the draw for something _more_ , to rise above this shithole planet and show what he can really do. Jim Kirk, not the son of dead George, not yet another Kirk following his family's legacy. Mutant or Carrier, more than anything, he wants to prove his worth as _James Tiberius Kirk_.

 

Son of a bitch. Pike is getting to him.

 

Kirk hates to admit it, but the captain has a point. Several, in fact. But there's only one that really matters to him. "I dare you to do better," he mutters to himself out loud, looking up at the half-built frame of the starship, and pictures himself in the captain's chair. It sounds comfortable as hell. And _he_ wouldn't be so stupid as to get himself killed within minutes of promotion.

 

No such thing as a no-win scenario. Maybe there's something to that.

 

And what is life on this crapsack world but failure? If he stays here, he'll never do anything with his life. It's just a fact.

 

Enlist in Starfleet.

 

Kirk glances at his wrist chrono, noting the time. Just under an hour and a half to make his decision. Down there, at the shipyard, there is a shuttle waiting to take gullible young recruits to San Francisco. And God help him, he's seriously thinking about being one of them.

 

He lets the bike idle between his legs as she gazes at the starship, still in her infancy, glowing under the spotlights and the slowly rising sun. She might be ready in three years, if he knows his starship construction. And three years isn't four.

 

Well then. If most cadets graduate in four years, that means very little. Jim Kirk is no normal man. Powers or not, he doesn't have to live by the same rules as everyone else. And it's not like he has anything else going for him.

 

And if he doesn't get going now, he's going to miss the shuttle.

 

His mind made up, Jim Kirk guns the throttle, his motorcycle effortlessly handling the terrain as he makes his way down to the shipyard. And all the while, he insists to himself that it's his idea, his decision. Captain Pike has nothing to do with it, and neither does George Kirk.

 

The last of the red-suited cadets are just getting onto the shuttle as Kirk's bike announces his presence with a roar. Captain Pike turns, and Kirk is secretly delighted to see the look of disbelief on the old captain's face as he parks his bike at the base of the shuttle, throws the keys to whoever's nearest, and heads up the ramp. "Four years?" he says cockily, with a confident grin. "I'll do it in three."


	4. Shuttle

"Why am I doing this?"

 

It's a damn good question. Enlisting in Starfleet is the last thing that Leonard McCoy has ever wanted to do with his life. He had a good career as a doctor, before the ex-wife ruined everything. Took his daughter, the house, even his reputation. And for what reason? Just because she felt that she couldn't love a man who drinks like a fish.

 

_Stupid_. McCoy takes another swig from his flask, feeling the burn of whiskey in his throat, and he's sure without looking that his gills are flushing red against his neck. It's not like his mutation is his fault, it's just a matter of biology, a trick of genetics.

 

And now here he is, hiding in the bathroom of a Starfleet shuttlecraft, away from any windows. His mutant physiology can handle any increase in pressure up to three thousand feet underwater, but vacuum is a totally different animal, and it's one that scares the shit out of him. Mutant or not, man was _not_ meant to gallivant around in outer space, where there are literally thousands of ways to die without warning.

 

It isn't as though not being able to see it makes it any less of a danger, naturally. But just like a toddler thinks that if he can't see you, then you can't see him, it sure makes it a hell of a lot easier to ignore if he's not staring out that viewport into the black.

 

He's shaken from his thoughts by a knock at the door. "Cadet, are you all right in there?"

 

"I'm fine!" he shouts back, and his voice is an octave or two higher than he intended. He clears his throat and tries again. "I said I'm fine!"

 

"Cadet, you need to take your seat. We're preparing for takeoff."

 

God save him from meddling copilots. "Fine, take off then." But he can hear her already accessing the override code for the door, so he hastily tucks his flask inside the pocket of his coat. His own heart rate is ridiculously fast, he's sure his blood pressure is rocketing skyhigh, and his gills are fluttering uncontrollably. Dear Lord in Heaven.

 

The copilot frowns in concern when she sees him, and she grabs his arm, tugging him out into the main body of the shuttle. "You need a doctor."

 

"I _told_ you people, I don't need a doctor, dammit, I _am_ a doctor," he protests, but holy shit she's strong, far stronger than any Carrier would be. And so he's hauled bodily into the cabin, unable to resist without seriously hurting himself.

 

"You need to get back to your seat."

 

He figures he's got one last shot, and then it's goodbye ignorance. "I _had_ one, in the bathroom, with no windows! I suffer from aviaphobia. That means fear of _dying_ in something that flies!"

 

The copilot is completely unmoved by his plea, although he can't really blame her. It's not like he's being soft and cuddly about all this. "For your own safety, sit down or I'll _make_ you sit down," she orders, and her grip tightens on his arm. McCoy swears he can hear his humerus creak under the pressure, and his face pales slightly as he nods, unwilling to set his own arm if he provokes her into splitting it in half like a rotten log.

 

God dammit.

 

There's almost nowhere left to sit anymore. Just one empty seat, next to some kid whose face looks about as bad as McCoy feels. He's dressed in civvies too, the only other person in a sea of red who isn't wearing Starfleet's favorite brand of torture. And he's eyeing McCoy with some measure of amusement.

 

Yeah, well, fuck him. McCoy sits down heavily, immediately strapping himself in under the watchful eyes of Lady Armstrong. She nods once as he buckles up, and walks back to the front of the shuttle.

 

So they're really taking off. Great.

 

McCoy leans over towards the smug-looking little bastard. "I may throw up on you." Out of spite, if nothing else.

 

The kid looks entirely unruffled, although his gaze does briefly flick across McCoy's neck. Of course, everyone has to make a crack about the gills. But he doesn't. "I think these things are pretty safe."

 

How can this kid be so calm? Must be an absolute idiot. "Don't pander to me, kid. One tiny crack in the hull and our blood boils in thirteen seconds. A solar flare might crop, cook us in our seats." Now the kid's looking at him like he's nuts, but dammit, they're valid fears. "And wait 'til you're sitting pretty with a case of Andorian shingles. See if you're still so relaxed when your eyeballs are bleeding. Space is disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence."

 

None of what he said sinks in, clearly, because the kid just looks at him and snarks, "Well I hate to break it to you, but Starfleet operates in space." Son of a bitch. What does he know? But then again, he doesn't look terribly excited to be here either. Maybe he was press-ganged into this farce of an expeditionary force too.

 

"Yeah, well, I got nowhere else to go. The ex-wife took the whole damn planet in the divorce. All I got left is my bones." And fuck it, they're going to confiscate it anyway, once they find out he has it. So McCoy pulls out his flask and takes a swig.

 

The kid's looking at him with something approaching concern, though why, McCoy can't begin to guess. And judging by the glazed look in his eyes, he could use a bit of the hair of the dog himself. God help him, why not share? He tilts the flask in the kid's direction.

 

The kid briefly salutes him with the flask, then drains the rest of it without a flinch. "Jim Kirk."

 

"McCoy. Leonard McCoy."

 

Kirk's eyes go to McCoy's neck again. "Koi, huh?"

 

"Don't you even _start_ with me, kid." By now, he's heard every stupid fish joke that anyone could come up with.

 

That godawful smug look is back, stretching the corner of Kirk's mouth. "Whatever you say, Fishbones."

 

Seriously. For fuck's sake, kid. McCoy scowls, and reaches out to grab Kirk's chin, turning his head so he can see the kid's injuries better. "You set that broken nose yourself? I can fix that." And before Kirk can protest, he grabs the kid's nose and finishes aligning it with a sick snap.

 

" _Ow_ , dammit!"

 

"Don't be such an infant." There, now they're even.


	5. Plunge

It doesn't take long for Kirk to decide that Orbital Skydiving is his favorite course at the Academy.

 

Sure, it's fascinating to learn about starship construction and function, the psychology of being in a command position over other crewmen, advanced phaser combat and hand-to-hand, and all sorts of other skills that Starfleet values in its recruits. But those don't tend to come with the sheer adrenaline rush that comes from willfully leaping from a shuttlecraft in high Earth orbit, relying on the latest and greatest in high-stress parachute technology to keep him from splatting into the ground a hundred thousand kilometers below.

 

He falls inverted, head pointed like an arrow at the faint glint of light that marks the location of Starfleet Academy, and imagines he can see the shimmering forcefield surrounding his body like a halo, protecting him from burning up as atmospheric friction flares to life around him. Perhaps he can feel the currents of the air, first thin and barely tangible, but increasing in strength and volume as he plummets towards the planet, and he shifts his arms to change his re-entry angle for optimal insertion.

 

Wind roars past his helmet, muffled by the padding encasing his skull but still deafening in its intensity, and he can't help a whoop of pure joy in freefall.

 

" _You're insane, Kirk!_ " a voice crackles over his helmet's comm, and he glances to the side without moving his head, still grinning like a madman. He catches a glimpse of one of his fellow cadets, engulfed in a bright aurora of flame, following him down.

 

"Tell me something I don't know!" he laughs in reply, and he can't help twisting a bit, the Earth doing a slow loop beneath him as he falls toward it. Never in his life has he felt so free, so _alive_ , like he was meant to be all along.

 

He stabilizes his flight just before plunging through a cloud layer, and all visibility drops to zero, replaced by a heavy dampness that completely surrounds him and streaks his faceplate with water. _Bones would love this part,_ he thinks to himself, and laughs again out loud as he imagines McCoy's actual reaction to the news that Kirk thought his friend might actually enjoy jumping out of a shuttlecraft. The doctor hates shuttles, but not to the point where he might think jumping would be better.

 

The cloud suddenly disappears, and below him stretches San Francisco, glittering on the edge of the bay. His comm crackles to life, and the voice of the instructor pipes up in his ear. " _No heroics, cadets. Deploy chutes at three thousand meters._ "

 

Slowed by atmospheric friction to subsonic speeds, Kirk glances down at the readout in his helmet, and is slightly disappointed to see himself approaching the target altitude. God, he could just fall like this forever.

 

But he can't, and the Earth rapidly approaches below. Kirk maneuvers himself chest-down, limbs spread to create additional drag, and pops his chute. The freedom of freefall immediately gives way to a heavy weight on his body as his velocity slows dramatically, his parachute catching the air and snatching that feeling away from him.

 

It doesn't do anything to stop the blood from pumping wildly through his body, however, and he shakes slightly from the adrenaline rush as he reaches for the controls, aiming himself towards the drop zone. He's the first one down, expertly spilling air from his chute as he swoops in for a gentle running landing. One tap of the chest control collapses his parachute and reels it into the back of his suit, packed away and ready for another jump. He twists off his helmet and revels in the warmth of the sun on his face, and the wind blowing through his hair.

 

Above him, a dozen colored dots herald the approach of his fellow cadets. The instructor lands next, looking a little irritated to be beaten to the ground by one of her students, but pleased to see him in one piece and standing on his own two feet. "Cadet Vel-Kirk, congratulations on your fourteenth successful jump."

 

He tucks his helmet under one arm and salutes, and even the use of the Carrier honorific isn't enough to ruin his mood. "Thank you, ma'am. It was a blast, as always."

 

"The point of this exercise, cadet, is to practice and perfect the necessary skills required to serve aboard a starship," she says, a little sharply, but can't quite suppress the side of her mouth quirking in a smile. "But I'm glad that you've enjoyed it. I haven't had a student so eager to fling themselves out into space in years. It's a refreshing change from having to push people out."

 

Kirk grins, watching his fellow cadets come in for a landing. One of the mutants in the class can't resist using energy blasts from his palms to slow his descent, something that Kirk is certain will dock him points for performance. Too bad. Just another method Kirk can use to prove that people without powers are just as good, if not sometimes better, than those that have them.

 

One by one, as the cadets land, they line up at attention for the conclusion of class. The instructor gives them all her final assessment, then releases them to turn in their gear and move on to their next activity.

 

It's only once he's on his way to the locker room that Kirk spots McCoy at the edge of the drop zone, white-knuckled hands clutching each other, green around the gills as he stares at Jim. "You think that foolish nonsense is _fun_?" he croaks.

 

Kirk shrugs easily. "Don't ask me to explain it, Bones. You love the water, I love the sky. Always have. Maybe because I was born in space, I don't know. It just feels right to be up there."

 

"Up there, sure, but falling your way back down isn't the best way to get back. Shuttles are deathtraps but good God, man, there's almost never going to be a good reason to open the door and fling yourself out of it!"

 

Kirk laughs and claps his hand on McCoy's shoulder. "Come on, I'll change and then we can hit the pool. No more jumping out of shuttles today, promise. Scout's honor."

 

"Right, like _you_ were ever a scout," McCoy mutters. Despite himself, he has to admit he's looking forward to the swim. If anything's going to calm his nerves after watching Kirk pull such a stupid, Academy-sanctioned stunt, it's either swimming or drinking. Trust Kirk to know that, too. "Well, come on, then."


	6. Routine

As roommates go, Kirk has bunked with far worse people than McCoy.

 

Sure, he tends to hog the shower all to himself in the mornings, and every now and then he sticks his head in the sink out of nowhere, but he cleans up after himself and makes a mean Georgian fish fry, so that evens out in Kirk's book. There's no easier way to win over Jim Kirk than good food, after all.

 

It's such a damn good thing that they both registered so late, too, or they could've ended up having to share a room with kids fresh out of high school, and somehow Kirk doubts that it would've gone quite so well.

 

It's kind of weird, being back at school. Kirk hasn't attended a structured educational system since he was twelve years old. When the Tarsus famine hit, school wasn't really all that important anymore, and he never really got back to it after the relief ships arrived either. But now he has scheduled classes, teachers that he has to respond to with "yes sir" and "no sir," and a whole lot of nonsense to learn that he already got through independent study in the last ten years. On the plus side, that makes it a hell of a lot easier to get into the accelerated courses so he can live up to his boast to Pike.

 

McCoy is somewhat appalled the first time he realizes what Kirk's workload looks like. "Good God, man," the doctor says with a scowl of concern, "the Academy will still be here tomorrow; you don't have to devour every scrap of knowledge like someone's gonna take it away from you if you don't treat it right."

 

Kirk just shrugs in reply. "Gotta start while I'm young, Bones." McCoy just rolls his eyes, though whether that's at the nickname or the attitude is anyone's guess.

 

Even after so long away from school, it's oddly easy to settle into a routine. Classes take up a good chunk of the day, but they nearly always manage to meet up for lunch, and Kirk pretends to be interested in McCoy's medical babble while McCoy tries to ignore Kirk making bedroom eyes at all the female cadets that pass by.

 

After classes are over, of course, is when the real fun begins. Both of them join the chess club, although McCoy doesn't quite have the patience for it, and soon abandons the club to join the swim team instead. Kirk finds himself joining a few impromptu games of Parisses squares here and there, and despite being hopelessly outgunned by several mutant cadets, Kirk is delighted to find that he's actually having fun. Something that McCoy fervently does not agree with.

 

"Jesus, Jim," McCoy says after one particularly brutal match, scanning Kirk's shoulder with a tricorder. "Don't you _like_ having your bones where they belong? Your back muscles are three different kinds of messed up. I'm going to have to pop your arm back in right here."

 

Kirk nods, having expected that, not losing his cocky grin. "Worth it, Bones. We won, didn't we?" He barely grunts as McCoy lifts his arm and manipulates it with the expert hands of a seasoned doctor. "It's nothing that can't be fixed."

 

Kirk's arm slips back into joint, and McCoy looks understandably disturbed by his friend's high pain tolerance, because Kirk barely flinches. "You're sure you don't have the power to shut off your nerve receptors or something?"

 

"No powers," Kirk says flatly, just like the last time McCoy tried to insinuate that his friend might be a mutant. "Just too much practice at it."

 

"Yeah, I can see that." It isn't the first time McCoy has seen the old scars crisscrossing Kirk's back, nor the first time he's seen the kid get himself beaten all to hell. And it seems ridiculous to him that such a thing is Kirk's idea of _normal_. Part of him would like to know what the hell this kid's gotten himself into, but Kirk's been stubbornly closed-mouthed about it, unlike nearly every other topic in his life. "Well I'd ask you to take it easy, but I know by now that you aren't gonna listen, you moron. Can I at least get you to wear the sling for a single goddamn day?"

 

"Sure, Bones," Kirk agrees, far too easily. "One day, I promise." Nor does he protest as McCoy straps up his arm to keep him from dislocating it again. "Women are totally into a guy who's a bit vulnerable."

 

McCoy rolls his eyes, right on cue. "Don't tell me you're doing this to impress girls."

 

"Of course not, Bones. That's just a bonus." Kirk says, waggling his eyebrows. "I do it because it's fun, not that you'd get that."

 

"I know how to have fun," McCoy says, sounding offended. "Just my idea of fun doesn't involve ripping people's arms out of their sockets like an idiot. I'm not here to make sure you don't kill yourself playing sports, you know. Supposedly I'm here to become a Starfleet officer."

 

"Funny, me too," Kirk replies, a little too cheerfully. "You know what we need, Bones? A dose of your favorite painkiller." Between the two of them, Kirk and McCoy have one of the biggest stashes of contraband alcohol on campus, at least that they know about - and if McCoy has ever noticed that Kirk also tends to hide ration packs in the walls, he's never said anything. Kirk digs into his concealed hoard and brings out a bottle of good scotch and two glasses, tucking the bottle into the sling so he doesn't have to make more than one trip.

 

"You can't bribe me, Jim," McCoy grumbles, and against his better judgment, he accepts the offer and pours a drink for each of them. "But I'll take this as an apology."

 

Kirk raises his glass slightly in a mockery of a salute. "And a thanks for fixing me up again."

 

"Just don't make a habit of it, all right?"

 

"No promises," Kirk says, and downs his glass.


	7. Haunted

Sharing a room with Jim Kirk is a fantastic way to lose out on sleep.

 

It doesn't happen every night, of course. Some nights, Kirk comes home dead tired from whatever damn fool sports thing he's found to do now, and he sleeps like a rock all night. Some nights, Kirk doesn't make it back to the dorm at all, and McCoy assumes it's because he's bunking with some pretty thing he met up with after class.

 

But some nights, Jim has nightmares.

 

They always seem to start the same way. Kirk mutters to himself in his sleep a lot, though it's rarely anything coherent. It's when he starts getting louder that he tends to wake up his roommate. Inarticulate sounds of pain, panic, whispers about blood and needing to hide before _they_ see him.

 

"Who's 'they,' Jim?" McCoy tries to ask one time, hoping that Kirk's subconscious mind will hear and reply, fitting in one more puzzle piece of the mystery of Jim Kirk.

 

But Kirk just shudders at the sound of another voice, and he curls in on himself, arms coming up to protect his head, hands clutching at his back like he's trying to claw deep furrows into his shoulder blades.

 

And then the screaming starts.

 

It never lasts long, of course. Once he screams loud enough to wake himself up, Kirk throws himself out of bed and onto the floor with a thump, violently needing to be someplace else.

 

"Jim... you all right?" Always the same question.

 

Always the same answer. "Fine, Bones. Just a dream." Kirk's answer is always monotone, dull, distancing himself from whatever horrors haunt him in the darkness as he kneels on the floor, staring into nothing.

 

McCoy lets it go for a long while. He's a doctor, not a psychologist. And if his beauty sleep is interrupted every now and then by a roommate with night terrors, well, it's just as well that he needed to get up to hydrate his gills anyway. But there's a lot of stuff about Jim Kirk that just doesn't add up. And God help him, he worries about the kid.

 

"Jim," McCoy says one night, after Kirk's thrashed himself awake again. "What did they do to you?"

 

There's a long, cold silence, and McCoy wishes he could see his friend's face in the dark. "It's not what they did. It's what I had to do."

 

He wants to ask what that was, but Kirk may never answer his questions again if he asks the wrong ones. "Where were you?" he asks instead.

 

"Tarsus Four." Kirk's voice shakes as he says it, too quickly, blurted out before he can think better of it.

 

McCoy feels a horrid chill go up his spine, colder than the black depths of the ocean. " _Jesus_." Too many things make sense. Jim would've been... what, eleven years old? Maybe twelve. Everyone in the Federation knows the story of the doomed planet. About how the crops failed, and with rescue ships too far away, a violent riot swept through the colony, squabbling over what little scraps of food were left. By the time help arrived, four thousand people were dead, over half the population. They never caught the madman at the head of the revolt, the one who ordered so many people killed so the rest might live. Rumors that the rescue ships found some of the survivors cannibalizing the dead never quite went away, and even if they aren't true, Tarsus IV was a horror show by all accounts.

 

No wonder Kirk keeps food hidden in the dorm, and is constantly snacking on whatever's closest. No wonder he has such old scars, never touched by a dermal regen unit. No wonder he doesn't hesitate to throw himself into dangerous situations for fun, because he's already lived through far worse.

 

Wordlessly, McCoy drags himself out of bed and drops onto the floor next to Kirk, not quite touching him. Just sitting with the poor bastard. Kirk doesn't move, kneeling in the dark, tense as a cord pulled to the brink of its breaking point.

 

"I'm not a Carrier, Bones," Kirk's hoarse voice says at last, and McCoy stays silent, aware that this could be the only time Jim ever talks about this. "But I really don't have any powers. Tarsus cut it out of me and left it in the dust."

 

"My God." Involuntarily, McCoy reaches up to touch the gills on his neck and imagines someone excising them with a sharp knife. Speculation... he has no idea what powers Kirk might've had, before Tarsus, and he's not going to ask for details right now. But as much as he sometimes hates his own mutation, the thought of having it violently ripped away is horrific nonetheless.

 

He's a doctor, not a psychologist. He doesn't have a clue how to even start to treat something like this, and he sure as hell can't heal it. But he can be a friend. And if that's all he can be, then by golly, he's going to be the best friend he can possibly be.

 

McCoy leans over slightly, just enough to press his shoulder up against Kirk's. "Jim, if you ever need anything, you know where to find me. I'm not gonna make you talk if you don't want to. Hell, if you just want a sedative, just ask."

 

"I don't want to be trouble," Kirk mumbles, but he doesn't move away from the touch, warmth seeping through his sleep clothes.

 

McCoy snorts in a suppressed laugh, even though nothing about this is funny. "Kid, you're nothing _but_ trouble and you have been since day one. I'm used to it."

 

Kirk is silent for a long moment, and then he slowly lets out his breath in a sigh, and much of the tension in his shoulders goes with it. "Thanks, Bones."

 

"Anytime, Jim. Now let's get off this floor before my knees start to hate you."

 

The nightmares still happen sometimes. There's no magic cure for whatever fucked-up shit Kirk had to deal with on Tarsus IV. But it's not uncommon for the dawn to find two Starfleet cadets sitting on the floor of their dorm, shoulder to shoulder, waiting for the coming of the sun.


	8. History

"Do you ever wonder," Kirk asks one day, "what Starfleet might've been like if the x-gene had never evolved?"

 

McCoy leans against the railing of the Golden Gate Bridge, looking out toward Alcatraz Island as he considers the question. He knows, as well as every other Earth human, that the mutant right to exist was written in blood here nearly three centuries ago. A whole lot of fuss over ultimately nothing, in the end - you can't beat basic biology, and though humans ended up being an incredibly diverse and random bunch, the evolution of the species is pretty undeniable and irreversible. For whatever reason, humans were meant to have the x-gene.

 

"Well," McCoy says after some thought. "It'd sure as hell make my job a lot easier if it hadn't."

 

Kirk smiles, although it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Come on Bones, a guy like you, having something against people with extra body parts? Isn't that a little hypocritical?"

 

"I've got nothing against them - us - socially," McCoy protests, subconsciously reaching up to scratch his gills. "But learning basic human anatomy is pretty much useless these days. There's a ridiculous amount of variation across the whole species. I've met kids who photosynthesize like goddamn plants, folks who can turn themselves into metal or stone, and some people who can literally kill you if they breathe on you funny. Without a full medical history, it's like playing Russian roulette. Chances are pretty good you won't do any harm, but one in six shots'll kill you deader than the dodo."

 

"I thought that's what tricorders are for," Kirk says, raising his eyebrows.

 

McCoy shakes his head. "They'll tell me if your x-gene is active, sure," he says, with a pointed look at his friend. To his credit, Kirk looks a little disquieted by that. "But it doesn't give me a clue what any given mutant can do, and it ain't obvious for everybody."

 

"They don't have tests for that?" Kirk asks. He looks a little surprised, but also a little wary, and McCoy wonders what exactly might've happened to the kid to make him react quite like that. Could be Tarsus IV, but other than that one night, Jim doesn't talk about it. And it's not exactly fair to blame _all_ of Kirk's neuroses on that hellhole.

 

"Not without getting incredibly invasive, down to DNA sequencing," McCoy replies, a little surprised to find that he's actually trying to be comforting about it. "It's ridiculously time-consuming, too. Not viable in an emergency, and really unlikely to happen outside of laboratory settings."

 

"Well, that's a relief," Kirk mutters, but he doesn't go into any more detail. He just leans against the railing next to McCoy, looking out over the water. The two of them are quiet for a few long minutes, a rarity when you're friends with Jim Kirk, but a comfortable silence nonetheless.

 

"You know, I've got a daughter," McCoy says eventually. Without looking, he can tell that Kirk's turned to look at him, probably with that laser-intense curiosity he's got. "She's six years old and cute as a button. I've got no idea if she's going to be a Carrier or a Mutant, but I love her all the same. I just hope that whatever powers she does or doesn't get, that she's happy with herself. Not everyone's that lucky."

 

"How'd you get yours?" Kirk asks, considering it only for a brief moment before blurting out the question. Tact, thy name is Jim.

 

By now, McCoy's used to it. "My pa liked to take me on fishing trips when I was a boy. Was never a big fan being out on the water, thinking about the dark depths of the ocean underneath me, but I never said anything because I wanted to spend time with my father and he was pretty busy otherwise. We got caught in a storm one time and couldn't make it back to the harbor before the boat got swamped. I panicked like an idiot and sank. Next thing I knew, I was breathing just fine and looking up at the surface of the water, about a hundred feet down. Scared the crap out of Pa when I popped up next to him. Apparently I'd been down there for at least ten minutes so he thought I was dead."

 

"Sounds like it was pretty scary," Kirk says, and he sounds appropriately sympathetic, which is slightly bizarre coming from Jim. "How old were you?"

 

"Fourteen. Pa never took me fishing again, which is too bad, because after that I didn't mind the ocean so much." McCoy shakes his head at himself. "Mutant powers are weird, Jim. You don't always get what you expected, and if the first thing that triggers it is what saves your ass, you don't get any do-overs."

 

"Yeah." Appropriately somber, Kirk looks down at the water far below, watching the late afternoon sunlight flicker across its surface. "Sorry you didn't get powers that you wanted, but I'm not sorry it saved your life. You're a good friend, Bones. I'd hate to not know you."

 

He can't help a smile. Jim Kirk, eloquent as always. "Feeling's mutual, Jim." His smile fades a little as he wonders, again, what Kirk has been forced to miss out on. "What about you? What could you do?"

 

Kirk's open expression slams shut with the finality of a pressure bulkhead sealing out the vacuum of space, and the smile on his face is clearly pasted on, reflexive. "You know, I'm kind of hungry. Let's go get some lunch," he says, pushing off from the railing.

 

Dammit. Jim may never be ready to talk about it, and McCoy regrets asking. If Kirk is ready to talk, he'd say so. Nothing's ever stopped him from speaking his mind before. "Yeah, sure. What're you in the mood for?"

 

There's a hint of genuine humor in Kirk's eye as he visibly shoves aside his bad memories. "I was thinking sashimi."

 

McCoy pretends to sigh and roll his eyes. If this is what it takes to be friends with Jim Kirk, then he'll put up with it. "Of course you were."


	9. Celebrate

It doesn't take a genius to realize that Jim Kirk isn't the biggest fan of his own birthday.

 

The first year at the Academy, Kirk vanishes from campus at the stroke of midnight like his carriage is turning back into a pumpkin and he's got to get the hell out of the castle. Twenty-four hours later, McCoy wakes to the sound of a very inebriated cadet shuffling into the dorm, flinging himself onto his bed with a loud sigh, fully clothed.

 

"You missed the remembrance ceremony," McCoy mutters, thoughts half-fogged by sleep.

 

"I know," is Kirk's only reply.

 

As Kirk's breathing turns to soft snores, McCoy lies awake, staring at the darkened ceiling. Of course, the day George Kirk died is the day Jim Kirk was born. And regardless of how Kirk feels about his dad, it's got to be hell to be reminded of it every single year. McCoy wouldn't be surprised if no one else even remembered that today is more than just Remembrance Day to one of their fellow cadets.

 

He certainly hadn't.

 

The second year goes a little better. The day after New Year's, McCoy drags the both of them out on a weekend camping trip away from the Academy. They camp out in Australia, in some park that Kirk's never heard of, but there's a gleaming blue bay and fantastic greenery, and they both have a great time up until Kirk realizes that one of his boots has somehow acquired a venomous snake in it overnight. Before he puts his foot in it, fortunately.

 

"You're always complaining about having to fix me up, and you brought me to the continent most infamous for deadly wildlife," Kirk says in amusement as he throws the boot to the edge of their campsite. The snake slithers out, clearly unhappy with its brief voyage, allowing Kirk to cautiously retrieve his footwear. He checks it pretty carefully to make sure no other surprises remain before putting it on.

 

"And here I thought you couldn't have a good time unless your life was in danger," McCoy grumbles.

 

Kirk just laughs, and together they set up sonic repellers around their tent to keep out any more unwanted pests. "Come on, Bones. Let's go check out the beach."

 

They spend Kirk's birthday swimming in the surf by day, and sharing drinks over a campfire at night.

 

In their third year, it's Jim's twenty-fifth birthday. Which means, of course, the news media are going to absolutely nuts over the twenty-fifth anniversary of the destruction of the _USS Kelvin_. And McCoy doesn't even need to ask to know that Kirk would rather miss it more than anything else in the world. "So, Jim," he says as the clock ticks down to the first few moments of the year 2258. "Where do you want to go this year?"

 

Kirk frowns a bit over his beer. "Isn't it a bit last-minute, Bones? I thought you'd already planned to drag me away somewhere again."

 

McCoy shrugs. "It's your birthday, Jim. If you wanna spend it locked in a room together while we get staggeringly wasted, then have at it. I just don't want you to be alone this year."

 

Kirk stares at him, and not for the first time, McCoy wishes his power was mindreading, not waterbreathing. After a long moment, he says, "I don't like to celebrate my birthday."

 

"Yeah, I noticed. That's why I'm asking now," McCoy says with a shrug, hoping that playing it casual will appeal to his young friend. "I know all this hoopla over your dad every year can't have been great growing up. It doesn't have to be shit like that every year, especially now that you can get drunk. Legally, anyway."

 

"How... thoughtful, Bones." Kirk sounds faintly amused, despite his bleak mood. "You know, no one's ever really put in the effort before."

 

"I know that too. So what do you say?"

 

Kirk takes a long pull from his beer. "Well, I do know this great bar down in Louisiana. I'm probably not banned there anymore."

 

McCoy wishes he could be surprised by the shit that comes out of Kirk's mouth sometimes. But after nearly three years of knowing the guy, it's really not that unexpected anymore. "Who'd you punch, Jim?"

 

"Oh, lots of people. I actually didn't start that brawl. I got sucker punched by some guy who didn't like me flirting with his girl." Kirk grins, clearly enjoying the memory. "The whole bar ended up getting trashed. Turns out it's a bad idea to piss off drunk telekinetics."

 

"I bet," McCoy says, and can't help eyeing Kirk as if he could look back in time and see young Jim getting his ass handed to him. It's not exactly hard to imagine. "How'd you make out?"

 

"Concussion, a few broken ribs, and a hell of a shiner. The other guy looked a lot worse, believe me. Turned out the barkeep had the power to produce shockwaves like an old-fashioned grenade going off, and after the bar was wrecked I guess he felt there was no sense in not breaking up the fight with it."

 

McCoy just shakes his head. Leave it to Jim Kirk to see such a thing as a good memory of times gone by. "And you wanna go back?"

 

"Sure. They've got good booze, good music, and dancing girls," he answers, raising his eyebrows with a grin. "What's not to love?"

 

McCoy just sighs. "Well, book us a shuttle and let's go. Just try not to get yourself beat up this time. I swear, patching you up is my job but that doesn't mean you've gotta give me so many opportunities."

 

Kirk holds up a hand as if he's swearing an oath. "I'll give it my best shot, Bones."

 

True to his word, Kirk does nothing to deliberately provoke a fight the whole night. He finds them a relatively quiet corner of the bar to enjoy the music, so when a brawl inevitably does break out, Kirk just leans back and watches with a massive smile on his face, raising his glass in a salute.


	10. Failure

The first time Kirk takes the Kobayashi Maru test, it's an unmitigated disaster.

 

He gets up from the chair, the simulation room smoking furiously around him, and he'd be mortified to admit that his hands are shaking. Behind him, he can hear McCoy saying something in a worried tone, but the words don't sink in and Kirk shrugs off the hand that tries to hold him back.

 

He doesn't remember how he gets to the bar, only that his head is buzzing and there's a tall glass of something green in front of him. He turns his head and smiles reflexively at the closest young lady, a Caitian sitting two seats away. She smiles back flirtily, but before he can make his move, an older man in dark grey sits down between them. "Altair water," he orders, and Kirk is a bit stunned - and annoyed - to recognize Captain Pike.

 

"Following me, sir?" Kirk says, scowling down into his own glass.

 

"An educated guess, Kirk," Pike answers, leaning lightly on the edge of the bar counter. "You're not exactly hard to find." He spares a nod for the bartender as his water is delivered, sloshing gently at the impact. "It's not the first time I've found you in a place like this."

 

Of course not. Kirk recoils a little at the idea that he might be _predictable_. God, how awful. Not like him at all. "Is it against regs to get shitfaced on my own free time? Sir," he adds belatedly, remembering that he's Starfleet now, and Pike outranks him by a hell of a lot.

 

Flinty blue eyes study him, and as always, Kirk feels a bit uncomfortable that the empath is reading him like an old-fashioned book. There's no defense against it, and no bullshitting. But Pike doesn't go for the throat, turning back to his drink and sipping at it. "No one's ever passed the Kobayashi Maru, James. No one."

 

That stuns him stupid, and he's vaguely aware that his mouth is hanging open. "Excuse me?"

 

"It's designed to be unwinnable," Pike continues, as if Kirk hadn't said anything. "It's a test of character, not skill or luck. Your failure in the simulator is exactly what we expected."

 

Rage wells up in him, burning under his collar. "My _failure_? You _expected_ me to crash and burn!" What kind of fucked up test is _that_? He takes a deep breath and lets it out way too quickly, not calmed by the action at all. "With all due respect... _sir_... is it common practice to put a cadet in the captain's chair to die the same way his father did?"

 

Point scored. Pike's eyes flicker in surprise, like he hadn't considered that angle. Maybe he hasn't, maybe he didn't realize Kirk's figured it out. While others are an open book to empaths like Pike, there's no such luck going the opposite way. "It's common practice to subject cadets to any number of stressful situations that realistically may arise during their service in Starfleet. Failure is entirely possible, Kirk. The universe doesn't care who your father was, or whether you're a Mutant or a Carrier, or if you're simply having a bad day. It's your job as Starfleet to deal with it in a way that leaves you with your head held high at the end of the day."

 

"You said that my dad's disbelief in no-win scenarios was something Starfleet has lost," Kirk shoots back, still furious that he'd been deliberately set up to fail. "Is that what you meant? So you have to torment your cadets to break them to that way of thinking?"

 

Pike sighs, looking world-weary and surprisingly old. "I didn't mean it in that way, Kirk. It really is a test of character, to evaluate how each cadet reacts to failure and high-stress situations. And while getting trashed isn't the healthiest response I've ever seen, it's a fairly normal one. There's no shame in how you conducted yourself today."

 

Words that might soothe some other upset cadet, but not James Tiberius Kirk. He slams the weird green drink down his throat, presses his thumbprint to the reader to pay for his tab, and stands up. "Thanks for the pep talk, _Captain_."

 

Pike says nothing, just watches him go, the door to the bar swinging back violently as Kirk storms out.

 

He spends the next week pouring over his memories of the simulation. Every sight, every sound, every detail of what was said and done. He runs through the permutations in his head, over and over, second-guessing what might have happened had he done _this_ differently. Searching for a way to beat the no-win scenario, to show that Jim Kirk is anything but a failure.

 

When he asks to take the test again, the instructors are surprised, but it's not entirely unprecedented. Every now and again, some headstrong cadet gets it into their head that they froze up the first time, or made some simple mistake that can be corrected on the next run. But the variables are always different, and inevitably the same outcome results.

 

Kirk manages to drag out the simulation for six hours, a new Academy record. Everyone on the false bridge is exhausted by the time the Klingons finally turn on the stranded ship and destroy it in front of their eyes. This time, Kirk simply frowns in deep thought as he gets out of the captain's chair and exits the simulator room.  


"Jim?" McCoy asks, his voice concerned. "You okay?"

 

"Fine, Bones," Kirk replies absently. He must have missed something. Or else... there really is no loophole. The program itself cheats to make sure that the cadet sitting in the chair can never make the right choice.

 

Well screw that.

 

It should probably be harder for him to hack into the computer and rig up a remote access point to a PADD, but years of honing his skills on the run from the law serve him well. He studies the program in secret for a month, before he finally decides what angle he wants to take, what strategy to try.

 

"Lieutenant Commander, can I speak with you for a moment?"

 

The subject of his attention turns curiously, his attention momentarily drawn away from analyzing a senior engineering cadet's final project. "Aye, laddie, what can I help you with?" Montgomery Scott asks, automatically taking the PADD as Kirk hands it to him. There's an excerpted section of code on the screen, and nothing else.

 

"There's a problem with this program," Kirk says, infinitely glad that Scott is a technomancer and not an empath, because he'd never be able to pull this off with Pike. "It's supposed to be a simulation of Klingon behavior, but the programmer completely neglected to add the right references to Klingon psychology."

 

"That's right easy to fix," Scott says absently, scanning the data by eye and - if that far-off look in his eye is any indication - with his mutation. "But how is it that you've come by this program?"

 

"A friend of mine was creating it for use in the new holo imaging systems," Kirk lies smoothly. "But she's not exactly a people person. I told her I'd help give it the human touch, but I'm not really sure what I'm doing. Is there any way you could help me out?"

 

Scott hmms, considering it. "I suppose there cannae be any harm in a wee tweak to it."

 

Less than an hour later, Kirk walks out of the engineering building with a spring in his step and a whistle on his lips.


	11. Success

"I'm taking the test again."

 

God help him, McCoy wishes he could say he was surprised. "You've got to be kidding me." After three years of knowing Jim Kirk, this is anything but news. The kid does not know how to give up.

 

"Yeah, tomorrow morning. I want you there." Kirk doesn't show any sign of having heard him, and there's this suspiciously smug look on his face. McCoy is forced to speed up if he wants to keep pace with Kirk as the kid strolls across campus.

 

"I've got better things to do than watch you embarrass yourself for a _third_ time. I'm a doctor, Jim. I'm busy." Watching Jim the first time through was harder than he thought it'd be, and the second time was just... odd. Calm acceptance, followed by some strange determination that McCoy has never seen before.

 

"Bones, doesn't it bother you that no one's _ever_ passed the test?" Kirk asks, and McCoy can feel his gills fluttering with worry for the bastard. Something's going on. No one is this happy about watching their crew die and their ship be destroyed, let alone more than once. Kirk has a plan, and that scares him more than anything.

 

"Jim, it's the _Kobayashi Maru_. No one passes the test, and no one goes back for seconds, let alone thirds. How many times are you gonna set yourself up for this?" There's no way Kirk will pass, not the way he wants to. No one ever has.

 

But Kirk just smiles at him like he doesn't have a care in the world. "It'll work this time." He thumps McCoy on the shoulder. "See you at oh-eight hundred!" he says cheerfully, and begins walking away.

 

"I didn't say yes!" McCoy shouts after him. Kirk just waves without looking back, like he knows McCoy's going to do it anyway. Which he is, God help him.

 

The next morning, the simulation starts just as it always does. The cadet assigned to the communications officer role today - Uhura something, he thinks - is a bit too snippy with Kirk as she reports the scenario, and McCoy rolls his eyes as he wonders what exactly Kirk did to piss her off. Slept with her and then ran off, probably. Or maybe he slept with her girlfriend.

 

Unlike last time, Kirk seems totally relaxed in the chair, like he belongs there and always has. "Set an intercept course for the _Kobayashi Maru_ ," he orders easily.

 

Right, that's McCoy's job today. He presses the right buttons to steer the ship toward the stranded civilian vessel, and is unsurprised by what the computer reveals the moment they cross the Neutral Zone. "Three Klingon warbirds, decloaking off our bow."

 

"Vel-Uhura, hail the lead warbird," Kirk says, as if he's practiced it over and over until it flows off his tongue as easy as breathing. "Universal translator protocols active, please."

 

She doesn't look impressed, but she does as he says. "Channel open, _captain_."

 

A Klingon warrior in full body armor appears on the monitor, beady yellow eyes glaring out at him through the holes in his helmet. " _nuqneH_?" the warrior barks, before the translator kicks in. "What do you want, Starfleet?"

 

"This is Captain James T. Kirk, of the _USS Capricorn_ ," Kirk says, looking the simulated Klingon straight in the eye. "Now, forgive me if I'm wrong, but doesn't the Code of Kahless prohibit you from attacking noncombatants? Going after civilian vessels is dishonorable."

 

The Klingon snarls at the accusation. "You dare!"

 

"I do!" Kirk raises his voice to match the Klingon's, never dropping eye contact. "You will allow us to rescue the crew of the _Kobayashi Maru_ , and you will not interfere."

 

"And why would I do such a thing?" the Klingon commander sneers.

 

"Because honor _demands_ it!" Kirk bellows, slamming a fist into the arm of the command chair, clearly enjoying himself. "And because," he adds, a wolflife grin spreading across his face, "you want the chance to fight _me_. In person."

 

McCoy freezes. This is bizarre, and the Klingon's behavior is a bit more emotional than it has been in the past. It's oddly easy to believe that Kirk would actually be willing to face a Klingon commander in hand-to-hand combat. He's just that confident.

 

The Klingon grins, baring pointed teeth, clearly imagining what challenging surprises this human might have in store, like much of his species. "Your challenge is accepted, Terran. You will transport to my flagship at once."

 

"Absolutely," Kirk agrees smoothly. "See you in a minute." The moment the channel's cut, he swivels the chair to face the cadet who's playing weapons officer today. "As soon as he drops shields for transport, beam an armed photon torpedo onto his bridge."

 

"Yes sir."

 

It's over in seconds. The lead warbird explodes spectacularly, and shrapnel disables the other two Klingon ships in short order. The simulated _Capricorn_ makes short work of what remains. And Kirk is munching victoriously on an apple that he's pulled out of seemingly nowhere.

 

Kirk leans back in the chair and grins. "Begin rescue of the stranded crew," he says, and looks up at the window to meet the eyes of the faculty who are watching. Pike stares down at him, looking like he's been pole-axed. McCoy knows just how he feels.

 

How the fuck did that work?

 

This time, no one tries to stop Kirk from leaving the simulator. McCoy follows, stunned silent, until they're well away from the building. "Jim, what did you _do_?"

 

"Pretty sure I won, Bones," Kirk says, throwing his arms wide. "Suck on _that_ , no-win scenario!"

 

"Jim, did you cheat?" McCoy demands hoarsely. There's no other explanation that he can think of.

 

"No, of course I didn't," Jim says dismissively. "Someone just revised the sim so the Klingons are more persuadable. Wasn't me, I swear."

 

Behind them, McCoy is confident that Kirk's test has kicked over the hive of bees as Starfleet scrambles to learn what the hell just happened. Under normal circumstances, they would have enough time to get to the bottom of it.

 

Unfortunately, Nero strikes first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for this installment! I plan to rework all three movies to fit the mutant 'verse, plus probably some extra side stories here and there. Stay tuned!


End file.
